The thing about having your heart stop is that afterwards, everything feels sort of fragile and tenuous, like the world's made of tissue paper and you're worried if you breathe too hard it'll all tear apart. I'm sitting on the examination table in the Jefferson ER - not the metahuman wing this time, just regular emergency - with those little electrode stickers still stuck to my chest under my shirt, and Dr. Song is explaining something about "transient cardiac arrest secondary to electrical exposure" while my parents stand on either side of me looking like they've aged about five years in the last two hours.

  "The good news," Dr. Song says, and I appreciate that she leads with that instead of burying it, "is that there's no apparent permanent damage to the cardiac muscle. The arrest lasted twenty-three seconds, CPR was initiated immediately, and your regenerative factor seems to have addressed any hypoxic injury." She's looking at a printout of something, probably an EKG, which just looks like a bunch of squiggly lines to me. "However, the electrical current did cause some muscular strain throughout your body, and I'm seeing evidence that you re-aggravated previous injuries during the involuntary contractions."

  "The stomach wound from a month ago," Mom says. Not a question.

  "Among others." Dr. Song pulls up my shirt without asking - I'm past the point of modesty with medical professionals - and examines the Lichtenberg figures spreading across my torso like someone drew on me with a purple-red pen. Fractal patterns, branching and rebranching. They're kind of pretty in a horrible way, and they're already slowly fading away. "These are electrical burns. They'll fade over the next few days, but they're going to be uncomfortable. I'm also concerned about the muscle strain in your chest wall from the CPR compressions."

  Dad hasn't said anything yet. He's just standing there with his arms crossed, and I can't read his face, which is worse than if he was obviously angry or obviously upset. At least then I'd know what I was dealing with.

  "So what's the treatment plan?" Mom asks. Her voice has that librarian-handling-a-difficult-patron quality to it, very calm and organized, which means she's barely holding it together.

  "Rest, primarily. Ice for the burns, heat for the muscle strain - alternate as needed. I'm prescribing a muscle relaxant for the next few days." Dr. Song looks at me directly. "And I mean actual rest, Samantha. No strenuous activity. Your body needs to recover."

  "She was on shift," Dad says suddenly. "As an EMT. Someone was dying and she saved them."

  Dr. Song glances at him, then back at me. "I'm aware. I spoke with the paramedics who brought you in. They were very complimentary of your diagnostic skills and your quick thinking." She pauses. "They also mentioned this is the third time you've been brought to this hospital after putting yourself in danger to help someone else."

  I don't know what to say to that, so I just sort of shrug, which makes my chest hurt. The other two occasions were so minor as to not even be noteworthy. Hector and Deena were more scared than I was. Jeez.

  "I'm not going to tell you to quit your EMT internship," Dr. Song continues. "But I am going to tell you that emergency medicine is a marathon, not a sprint. You can't help anyone if you're dead." She hands the prescription to Mom. "Follow up with your regular physician in three days. If you experience any chest pain, irregular heartbeat, or difficulty breathing before then, come back immediately."

  The discharge process takes another twenty minutes - paperwork, instructions, the nurse removing the electrode stickers which leaves little red marks behind. Dad pulls the car around while Mom and I wait by the entrance, and I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say. Sorry? Thank you? I didn't mean to scare you but also I'd do it again?

  "Your father and I are proud of you," Mom says quietly, before I can figure it out. "Terrified, but proud."

  "I didn't - it wasn't like I was trying to be a hero or anything. Someone needed help and I was right there and I had the ability to--" is how I start, already trying to make excuses for myself.

  "I know." She puts her hand on my shoulder, careful to avoid the burns. "That's exactly what we've been asking you to do. Use your abilities in legitimate contexts. Work within systems. You were on duty as an EMT, someone's life was in danger, and you used your specific capabilities to save them." She takes a breath. "It just turns out that there's no safe way to help people. Even the legitimate channels involve risk. We can't put you in one of those big round hamster balls. There's no way to hermetically seal you from risk."

  Dad pulls up in the Camry and we get in, me in the back because sitting up straight in the front seat sounds awful right now. The drive home is quiet except for the radio playing something from 104.5. I watch the streetlights slide past and think about how the Jumphead's blood looked to my sense - orange and fizzy, like someone dumped chemicals into a soda and shook it up. How his heart was hammering so fast it was basically just vibrating. How the electricity felt going through me, every muscle clenching at once, my vision going green at the edges.

  Not a green I've seen before. Not a green I'd like to see again.

  How Deena's face looked when she was doing chest compressions, counting out loud, professional and focused and absolutely terrified underneath.

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  "At least there were other paramedics there," Dad says finally, and I realize he's been thinking about this the whole drive. "You weren't alone. Someone could help you when you needed it."

  Which is maybe the most important thing, actually. I keep putting myself in situations where I'm the only one who can help, and eventually that's going to get me killed. Today I was part of a team, and when I went down, the team caught me.

  We pull into the driveway and I look at our house - rebuilt after Mr. T-Rex, never booby-trapped by Shrike despite his threats, just a normal house in Mayfair with aluminum siding and a small front yard with concrete stairs leading up, stairs that we share with another house in a sort of conjoined twin stairs sort of situation. Home. I can go inside and sleep in my own bed and not worry about spike traps or neo-Nazis or anything except how much my entire body hurts.

  "I have that mentorship meeting tomorrow night," I say as we're heading inside. "At the Music Hall. Councilman Davis is bringing supplies."

  Mom and Dad exchange the next of what will inevitably be a thousand more meaningful glances. Like trying to read each other's mind.

  "Can you handle that?" Mom asks. "You're supposed to be resting."

  "It's just introductions. Meeting the new kids, making sure everyone's comfortable. I'll be sitting down the whole time." I pause. "And the whole team will be there. I won't be alone."

  Dad nods slowly. "Okay. But you come home right after. No investigating, no patrolling, no anything except the mentorship program and then straight home."

  "Deal."

  I take a long shower, careful around the Lichtenberg figures, and change into clean clothes - loose sweats and a t-shirt that doesn't press on any of the sore spots. My tracker bracelet probably flagged the cardiac arrest the moment it happened, which is how my parents got called to the hospital so fast. I should be annoyed about the surveillance but honestly, right now I'm just glad someone knew to come get them. Although Hector or Deena probably would've called them anyway. I don't know. Is it even functioning?

  I look at my bracelet. I smack it a couple of times. Yep. Still on. Either it's a hardy damn bracelet or the weird electricity just didn't bother it at all.

  The muscle relaxant is starting to kick in by the time I go to bed Monday night, which means I wake up Tuesday feeling like someone packed my entire torso in bubble wrap and then used me as a stress toy. Everything's stiff and sore, and the Lichtenberg figures have faded from purple-red to a kind of sickly yellow-green that looks like I'm rotting from the inside out.

  Mom tries to get me to stay home from school. Dad backs her up. I tell them I've already missed enough days this semester and I'm not falling behind because of some electrical burns and muscle strain, which is technically true but also I just don't want to spend the whole day lying in bed thinking about the orange tang of Jumphead blood.

  School is fine. Nobody asks about the burns because nobody can see them under my hoodie, and I'm careful not to wince when I'm reaching for stuff in my locker. Alex asks if I'm okay at lunch because apparently I look "super tired," and I tell him I had a rough shift as an EMT, which is true enough that it doesn't feel like lying.

  The real argument happens when I get home and tell my parents I'm going to the Music Hall for the mentorship meeting.

  "You're supposed to be resting," Mom says, and she's got that librarian voice on, the one that means she's already decided the answer is no and she's just waiting for me to accept it.

  "It's just sitting in a circle talking to kids about their powers. I'll be fine."

  "Sam, your heart stopped yesterday--"

  "And then it started again, and now I'm fine." I grab my jacket from the coat rack, trying not to make it obvious how much that hurts. "I'm not going to bail on these kids because I'm sore. That's not how this works."

  Dad's leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. "What if you have complications? What if something happens?"

  "Then Maggie will call 911 and I'll go to the hospital again. But I'll be with people who know I have powers, who won't freak out if something weird happens." I pause. "And honestly? Sitting at home thinking about it is worse than actually doing something productive."

  They exchange one of those parent looks, the kind where they're having an entire conversation without saying anything, and I know I've basically won because if they were going to shut me down completely they would've done it already.

  "Home by nine," Mom says finally. "And you text us every hour."

  "Deal."

  The Music Hall looks different than it did yesterday - more organized, more intentional. Maggie and Lily are already there, rearranging all of Jordan's hard-purchased, hard-stolen furniture into more orderly configurations. Squared off and rectangular, pushed into corners, instead of just sort of laying wherever they were convenient. Councilman Davis is near the back with more boxes, pulling out what looks like snacks and drinks.

  "You actually came," Lily says when she sees me. "I thought your parents would lock you in your room."

  "They tried. I'm very persuasive." I drop into one of the chairs and immediately regret it because the metal is cold and hard and my entire back complains. "How long until people start showing up?"

  "Twenty minutes or so." Maggie's setting up a card table against the wall, covering it with a tablecloth that's definitely from her mom's house because it's got little embroidered flowers on it. "Davis brought cookies and juice boxes, which makes this feel like we're running a kindergarten, but whatever."

  "Juice boxes are universal," I say. "Everybody likes juice boxes."

  Lily's organizing the smaller chairs into a loose circle - not too formal, not too casual, just enough structure that people know where to sit without feeling like they're in therapy. Which I guess this kind of is, except without the therapist and the clinical diagnosis and the medication adjustments. Just kids with powers trying to figure out how to exist in a world that's not really built for us.

  "So what's the actual plan here?" Lily asks. "Are we doing like, ice breakers? Trust falls? What's the vibe?"

  "Low key," I say. "Introductions, get to know each other, maybe talk about what everyone's struggling with. Nothing structured. We're not teachers, we're just... people who've been doing this longer."

  Davis finishes setting up the snack table and comes over. "The goal for tonight is just establishing comfort and safety. Let them know this is a space where they can talk about their powers without judgment, where they can ask questions without feeling stupid." He looks at me specifically. "And let them know that having powers doesn't mean you have to be a superhero. There are other options."

  Which feels pointed, but he's not wrong.